


A Summer of New Things

by giwp



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Day 1: Begin Again, JeanMarco Week, JearMarco Week 2015, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giwp/pseuds/giwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is coming back from a broken relationship and Marco's coming out of something too hard for him to talk about most of the time. Living in San Francisco was always the portrait painted out to be this safe oasis for new things and experiences and the two boys set out to see just how much they can acclimate to without feeling too far out of their comfort zone.  </p><p>JeanMarco Week 2015 </p><p>Based on <a href="http://mamaarachne.tumblr.com/post/120488380415/benedictsbitch-not-princehamlet-peegan-i">this prompt from tumblr</a> because I'm weak for these kinds of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> **Day 1 Prompt: Begin Again**.

It’s been over a week now.

A whole week and no sign of contact from the boy. The heavy weight of uncertainty and confusion can get to a person. It can crush a person; creating a mass of self-doubt and insecurities that threaten to compress over their head as the minutes turn to hours which turn into days and ultimately amassing into a week of torture.

A week without hearing Eren’s voice on the other side of Jean’s cellphone.

A week without a sarcastic text message full of palpable love.

It’s a week of being left alone with your thoughts and being forced to remember and reevaluate everything you did wrong in the last few months that could destroy something that had grown from years of relativity.

It’s been a week and Jean has been spending a majority of those seven uneventful days cooped up in his tiny San Francisco apartment where somehow the 700 square feet of movable room feels too much – too spacious – for just his lithe body. Not even the rush of the cool summer breeze filling the small space could be deemed refreshing enough to pull Jean into believing that there was a decent enough filter to look at life through.

They’d been a thing for years now and it’d all gone to shit in the blink of an eye. A sudden whim on Eren’s part where suddenly “it’s not what I want” were words coming out of his mouth. Words followed by the wavering annunciation of a final goodbye and “it’s not enough for me, Jean”.

Eren had decided one day that he’d had enough. This is Eren’s fault. Jean had no part in the sudden disinterest on Eren’s side of the relationship. It wasn’t like…

This blame can only be put on Eren. Anything that happened those seven or so days ago was all Eren’s doing and Jean shouldn’t be held accountable for it.

Should he?

Jean isn’t the type to be empathetic towards people – he barely blinked an eye when news went around the family that his cousin Hitch was on the tip of the mountain’s edge of getting kicked out of the family for some kind of pregnancy scandal – and those same feelings were always kept around, tucked deep in the pockets of his jeans, ready to be pulled out to save him from other people’s bullshit.

It was his barrier of sorts; block out the unnecessary crap and keep your head above the water, and everything will be peachy keen.

Eren had always been a different story.

He was Jean’s very own motivation to jump off that mountain’s edge; pushing Jean’s buttons hard enough and persistently pulling him over and into the other side of his comfort zone. And Jean had welcomed it.

He’d welcomed it with open arms the moment he’d found himself seething in a hard plastic chair in front of the principal’s office back in middle school sitting next to the boy who’d managed to give him a bloody nose. He’d let the boy get under his skin and run his own mixture of malice into his veins without a bat of an eye. Jean let himself reply to the snarky comments and welcomed the lilt in the shorter boy’s voice as his voice pitched in annoyance.

Eren pushed Jean’s buttons and Jean liked it.

He liked it as a friend until the day came when things got heated enough to push it even further.

And now all it had managed to do was finally push Jean far enough with nothing under his feet to keep him above the feeling of drowning in his own convoluted grief.

Eren did this to him and Jean could only manage so hard to keep his breathing even every night as he tried not to think about how cold and empty the sheets around him in his bed felt.

It’s been a week now and all Jean can do is feel every stinging bite that the small space of his apartment gives him. The delta breeze drifting in from the open doorway to the small deck that looked out towards familiar gray buildings lining the roads of San Francisco did little clear Jean’s mind.

It’s Saturday afternoon. Eren’s night to make dinner while they sat around Jean’s living room in various states of undress and commenting on disgusting horror films from the 70s; a tradition that’d been set since they first moved away from home to go to the same out-of-state college. A tradition that apparently never met a damn thing to the other boy.

Jean slips his way out to stand on the small expanse of his deck to look out through the small gap the houses allowed him. His deck looked out over a hidden road – a thin span of concrete that couldn’t even hold the width of a dumpster but was enough to probably make a Spiderman enthusiast’s dreams to spider climb his way up to Jean’s place on the 2nd floor come true. His apartment, that could barely even be called that, was met dead on by other apartment blocks – the lies of “houses” and such a thinly veiled excuse to make the place appealing – and although Jean could make out the waves of blue through the small expanse the alleyway allowed him, it was never enough to really quell Jean’s desire to get closer to the ocean.

He’d moved out here for Eren and because the idea of living by the sea, by the clear expanse of water that just oozed the visions of his mind’s eye with colors and textures. And now all he could really see was how shitty his view really was.

So close yet still so far away from the ocean’s surface that a bike ride couldn’t even justify the feeling inside him.

Jean’s hands tighten around the railing of the barely 50 square feet of space; his throat tightening in annoyance and a sudden urge to let everything just fall apart as the sea air makes it meager attempts to reach and ruffle his hair and only being able to do so much behind the expanding wall of gray.

He just needs to-

He just needs to let it all out.

“CAN I JUST BE FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH TO ACTUALLY MAKE YOU FEEL SOMETHING?”

Jean’s throat is itching from the words leaving him but he doesn’t take it back. He’s going to get past it and he’s just going to start over.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed a few more seconds of self-pity before plunging back into the real world where he really needs to get back to work and buy groceries before he and Jacque die of starvation. He’d jump off this stupid tiny balcony before letting his fucking cat suffer from his stupidity.

His few seconds to himself are cut short when his ears pick up a new voice, a deep melancholy voice that could melt chocolate while managing to sear itself into Jean’s ears as he strains to hear it over the rattle of bicycle chains. “YOU ARE PERFECT AND YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE.”

The guy, a massive blur of dark hair and vibrant clothes on a plain black bike, zooms past Jean’s small ledge, leaving him standing and staring at the back of a head he’s never even seen.

“What the fuck?”

He stands there staring at the space the guy had just been before turning around the corner, his eyes blown wide in wonder and just confusion. Who the hell even was that guy and why did he need to answer my hissy fit.

Huffing to himself, Jean spins on his heels and walks back into his place, intent on making sure he gets some kind of food item for him and his cat before he lets any of this get to him.

The soft purring coming from his feet tells him that his white little Birman cat agrees with the idea. Jean had gotten the little guy on whim after walking through a farmer’s market too early in the morning and after a couple weeks of managing to annoy Eren with his insistent whining and furry remains, Jean fell in love.

Should’ve been a sign, honestly. Fell in love with a cat faster than he had with Eren.

Jean stoops down to run his fingers of the soft coat. “Don’t worry, baby. We ain’t going hungry any time soon.”

Grabbing his keys and wallet from where they’ve been sitting nearly the entire week, Jean does just that and heads out the door making sure the apartment is closed and locked behind him and makes his way towards the stairs.

He fiddles with the keys, his hands antsy after being cooped up for so long with no real sunlight other than the filtered bits he got over the rooftop edges and the few more vastly filtered pictures he happened across on Sasha’s obnoxious Instagram feed.

Sliding his wallet into his pocket and making sure he had in fact “forgotten” his cell phone back in his bathroom, Jean lets himself play with the jingling keys in hand; the harsh chimes soothe him as his mind tries to veer him off course.

He needs food.

Jacque needs food goddammit.

Jean paces his steps as he heads towards the corner store. The closest grocery store would be too far a journey for what little motivation Jean has and he figures a night of canned soup and a can of wet cat food will have to do for a day or two until his paycheck comes in soon.

The afternoon light is still bright and it seems that the work day is over for most of the city as the roads and sidewalks are full of huffy-looking people trying to make their way back home or wherever their own adventure is leading them too.

Jean walks amongst them, his mind flittering in thought as he tries to figure out what a certain looking person possibly does in the city of San Francisco. With many of the people around him, he can smell the gay freedom and the teenage angst of finally living away from home and being excited about the rundown back streets of San Francisco’s city limits. Others, the despair of high rent and higher elevation pathways seems to sag their bodies right down to their crinkly ballsacks.

San Francisco is the place to go for new things but it also can become a hellhole where you want to leave but don’t know where else to go to find the things you find here.

And that includes the people sometimes. But mostly it’s the view.

As Jean gets closer to his destination, the looming glow of the “Cornershop” sign in front of him like a bait luring in a fish, he’s able to catch a glimpse of said view a lot better than if he were to stay cooped up in his apartment.

Lines of telephone wires and the edges of rooftops cut through the deep pools of pinks and purples painting across the bay’s sky. The clouds are still around even as summer sets over the west coast and the way they seem to float through the waves of fading blues into deep purples is beautiful. The tips of the balls of fluff catching the slowly dipping sun and turning it orange and pink and keeping the concrete illuminated a bit longer as the number of people around Jean dwindles down to just the few stragglers.

There are bikes lined out in front of the store as he approaches the entrance, the familiar glint of cheap metal and the more expensive brands blending together in a city where almost anything goes catching Jean’s eye as he pushes through the glass door.

A bell above his head chimes as he walks in and he shoots a nod at the familiar face sitting at the register. Five years of living in the same city can really make everything feel bland and relentless after a while but the smirk Jean gets back always seems to lift his spirits as he scowls back in annoyance.

So it’s been a while since Jean’s been there to buy condoms. Sue a guy.

Rolling his eyes to the nth dimension, Jean walks towards the edible arrangements the little shop provides to people like Jean who can’t be bothered to visit an actual grocery store to feed themselves. Sliding into the aisle lined with bags of chips and different types of canned and boxed foods, Jean’s met with a barrier. A large barrier in the form of a man a little taller than him and handling probably too many bags of Doritos and Lays than is healthy.

“Uh,” Jean mutters awkwardly.

The guy doesn’t seem to notice Jean’s graceless position at the end of the aisle and keeps running a long, dark finger over the shelf tags. The oddly bright green hoodie he’s wearing covers all of his face as he keeps himself turned away from Jean but Jean knows that he’s most likely mouthing out the words written on the shelves as he grabs bag after bag and studies them for way too long to be sane.

Jean glances behind him where his nemesis store clerk is sitting and flipping through a magazine but even the bulk he knows is hidden under the nametag and University sweater reading “Ymir” won’t matter with this guy.

He’s tall but the guy looks like a lost puppy with the way his shoulders hunch forward as he keeps a finger close to the shelf like he might just tip forward and needs the preparation beforehand to stop himself.

Letting out a deep breath and shaking his head in annoyance, Jean takes a couple steps forward. He waves a hand in front of his face, tilting his head to the side to catch a glimpse at the guy’s face just to make sure he isn’t about to intrude on a psycho’s territory. “One look in the eye can tell a story, Jeanbo” was what his mom always said.

It takes a while before he latches onto the man’s attention, snapping it to much of Jean’s amusement as he swivels on his beaten up shoes to face Jean. He looks like a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar and for all the dramatics that the SF Theater world would pay money for, he drops his armful of chips straight onto the sticky tiled floor.

He gasps in realization and mumbles an apology before stooping down and clearing his throat as he tries to gather the bags in shaky hands. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

He stands back up with his arms full with chips again and turns back to the shelves to place them where he had gotten them for.

Okay. What the fuck is up with that?

The guy sputters for a second as Jean makes no indication of moving without some clue as to what the hell is happening in this stranger’s head. He chuckles to himself and after finishing with the bags he turns back to face Jean and runs a finger under his nose. Probably a nervous tick.

“You just startled me, I’m sorry. Was I in your way or something? I never am good with noticing when people are around me when my hood is up.”

Jean raises an eyebrow as his eyes unconsciously flit up to the rim of the hood – the edges of hair peeking out from under it.

The guy must catch where Jean is looking and a hand soon goes up to swipe the hood down like it’s offended Jean somehow and he doesn’t want to bother him anymore. Dark hair, parted oddly in the middle like a kindergartener on his first day of school comes out from hiding and something about it catches Jean a little off guard.

Jean’s gaze goes back down to the guy’s face. A multitude, and honestly a stupid amount, of freckles are scattered across dark skin. He looks to be foreign and that’s the only explanation Jean can think of as he tries to figure out what region of the world could equal to freckles on dark skin and an accent not thick enough to be incomprehensible but enough to make Jean waver where he’s standing in thought.

It must be a while that he just stands there and stares and Jean would blame it on the heat and week without real interaction but he’s knocked back into reality as he sees the stranger’s head tilt with a look of wonder on his face.

“Um. Did you need something? I don’t actually work here but I-” his voice fades out and Jean almost – _almost_ – blushes in embarrassment.

“Oh. Shit. Nah man. Sorry I’m just kinda tired. You were just in my way for a second and I spaced out.”

The guy takes the poor excuse to regain Jean’s small amount of self-respect and smiles.

Dimples are nice.

The guy chuckles. “That’s okay. Sorry I was blocking your way.” He sticks out a hand towards Jean. “My name’s Marco.”

Jean stares at the hand and how it’s there and offered to him like it’s no big deal.

But this is a huge deal.

Moving to San Francisco was an Eren-central deal Jean had made. He didn’t come here expecting to spend his free time with new friends and doing things without Eren.

He knows he’s being as dramatic as Snow White’s acid trip through the forest but accepting this hand could end up with him accepting a friendship which meant creating more ties to this godforsaken city when all he wanted to do was forget and just sit at home with Jacque while he went through the different files he’s going to have to address sooner or later when he got back to work.

Shaking this guy – Marco’s – hand felt unfamiliar to him and it made Jean uncomfortable thinking about what it could mean. He doesn’t want the ties and he doesn’t need the pressure of someone trying to hang themselves onto Jean only to rip themselves away when they got tired of it.

Jean needed something new. He needs to do something uncharacteristic, maybe. Something unexpected. Something that could erase his ex out of his head.

Maybe not his memories because there would always be the good that Jean would cherish between them. There were still years of grade school and college between them and he wasn’t ready to give those up.

But a new friend could be fun.

Looking up from Marco’s hand, Jean lets his eyes flit across the other man’s face. There’s an earnestness he can make out underneath the obvious nerves of waiting for Jean to grab his hand.

Jean remembers earlier when the suddenness of the guy on his bike had jarred him back to where he was standing and how it was such an odd experience but it left him a little lighter.

Jean decides he likes that feeling.

He likes the unexpected and maybe this Marco guy can help him.

It’s just a handshake but accepting it might mean future encounters that Jean would’ve missed had it never happened.

Jean reaches out and meets Marco’s hand. The grip between them is firm and Jean likes how it feels grounded even with it coming from a guy he’d just watched mumbling and tracing over words on a store shelf.

“I’m Jean,” he says quietly. He clears his throat, not like how he sounded like a shy new kid in school, and continues. “Jean Kirschstein.”

“Jean,” Marco repeats back. He seems to roll it around in his mouth for a second before deciding it’s a good enough word to say again. “Jean. That’s a pretty name. Is it French?”

“Yeah. But I’m most definitely not. Mom had a thing for Les Mis and dad was a pushover when it came to pregnant ladies.”

Marco chuckles and nods his head. “Well it really suits you. Tell your mom she chose well.”

Jean pauses for a second and after realizing it’s been too long to still be holding hands, takes his hand back in the silence. Coughing a little into his right hand to clear the nonexistent mucus and embarrassment off the tip of his ears, he looks back into Marco’s eyes – they’re a deep shade of brown and alive with something akin to a wildfire but steady as the tides rolling in. And it’s odd and too poetic for Jean’s mind to catch up to so he stashes it in the back of his thoughts for now. “So what exactly were you doing with the bags of chips?”

“Oh. Um,” Marco’s voice trails again as he turns his head to look back at the shelf tags. He turns back to Jean and smiles – although it looks a bit more forced than just a second ago. “I was just seeing all the different flavors. Trying to figure out which one Ymir won’t hate me for buying later.”

Jean squints his eyes at Marco’s face before swiveling his head to stare at Ymir who’s still sitting at the counter unknowingly like a preteen with better things to do like paint their nails pink and black and tries to find the connection.

They both have the spatterings of freckles but the shapes of their face and eyes don’t necessarily seem like they come from the same gene pool. And Marco definitely has a button nose while Ymir could audition for the role of the Wicked Witch of the West if she pleased.

“Ymir,” Jean says. He points over his shoulder at the girl with a confused look on his face. “You’re related to Ymir? And you live with that she-demon?”

Marco smiles awkwardly and a hand comes back up to rub at the skin under his nose. He lets out a small chuckle. “She’s my cousin actually but no. We don’t live together. I’m staying with one of my friends from high school.”

Jean’s mood dims right there and then as he’s reminded of the inevitable. _Right. High school friends._

He nods his head absentmindedly, no longer really paying attention at the new person standing in front of him and instead lets his eyes roam around the shop; trying to find an exit route without seeming rude.

“Mm. High school friends, huh? So did you guy move out here together?”

Marco tilts his head and there’s a concerned look etched over his furrowed eyebrows as he takes in Jean’s obvious uneasiness. He doesn’t know what a proper response to such a weird question could be and, frankly, neither does Jean and regrets asking a second too late.

He’s about to cross it all off and play it as a silly joke between “new friends” but Marco cuts in before he can stop it.

“No. Actually he’s been out here for a while and I really needed a change of scene. And since Ymir already lives out here, it kind of worked out, ya know?”

Jean does know.

The urge for something new in a world so bland. It’s enticing and can be a toxic motivation to do impulsive things.

But it makes you feel alive for once and Jean can’t blame the guy for thinking the edges of San Francisco could offer him that.

“Yeah. I get that.”

There’s a silence between them. It feels awkward by its very existence but Jean likes how he can hear the faint buzz of the lights over their heads and the whirl of the fan propped up on a stool near the front door to keep the flies away and Ymir in her seat. Jean looks around at the shelves, his eyes noticing the ruffled up bags that Marco had been handling, but he can feel the intense look coming from the taller boy as he makes no move to walk away or say anything.

Jean doesn’t really want the conversation to end.

He doesn’t have anything to offer but the small talk was an open change. A new beginning of sorts.

Plus, he likes that Marco doesn’t seem to care much about what they talk about and isn’t showing signs of wanting to maim and consume.

Marco shuffles his feet and Jean turns up to look at him properly again.

“I should probably get going,” he starts to say.

Jean nods enthusiastically, realizing he’s been making a pretty big idiot of himself by not creating conversation when he’d started this exchange in the first place.

“Right. I should get my things and head back home too. Jacque is probably waiting for me.”

Marco’s head tilts in amusement and Jean’s mouth audibly shuts hard enough to make his teeth click painfully.

“Is that your brother? Jacque? Is he another one of your mom’s name creations?”

Jean laughs nervously, his hand going up to card through the short hair of his undercut. His wishes for a second that he’d taken the time this week to go out and get a haircut. He’s nervous now and he can feel the sweat building at the nape of his neck. Nerves can only do one thing.

Jean starts rambling like a crazy lady on meth.

“Haha not exactly. Jacque’s actually my cat. He’s a Birman breed and we ran out of food so I was out to get something quick before the paycheck comes in and I can actually go to a real grocery store. No offense to your cousin of course but this store only has so many kinds of potato chips it’s kind of pathetic in the grand scale of what American stores, especially the big box stores, are capable of carrying and selling. I mean some of these brands are known for spending millions of dollars just for a thirty second spot during the commercials during the Superbowl. Like, can you believe that? About $4.5 million for thirsty seconds. Just to show that they’re still selling the same recipe brand. It’s all such a big marketing ploy and the consumers fall for it and it’s like a cycle of consumers watching and buying and big companies making their money and creating more commercials which the consumers will come back to watch because it’s this American tradition and-” Jean chances a glance up and freezes in place. “SHIT. I HAVE TO GO NOW.”

All Jean sees is how high Marco’s eyebrows had risen – receding all the way up to his hairline – and he’s pushed his way down the aisle before anything can come out of the taller man’s mouth. He hastily grabs a dented can of Progresso and a packet of cat food from the conjoining aisle and takes the long way around the shelves to practically sprint to the counter.

He sees from the corner of his eyes that Marco’s watching him with wonder the entire time but Jean keeps to himself and tries not to overthink how stupid he was just now.

Who the fuck goes off and rambles about the Superbowl because someone asked about your cat?

Jean tries not to slap himself across the face with the can of soup and he leans over to grab a Cherry Cola out of the fridge next to the counter and slams everything down in front of an annoyed-looking Ymir.

Ymir eyes the items curiously and shoots a lopsided smirk at Jean when the one item she teased over every single time he entered the store wasn’t on the menu. But Jean doesn’t have time to think about that right nor does he have the time to argue when he can feel a body getting closer to the counter behind him.

He knows it’s Marco probably finally snapping out of Jean’s sudden episode and wanting to get the hell out of there as well so Jean keeps to himself as he feels Marco step up next to him at the counter.

“Hey Ymir,” he says. Ymir looks up Marco and Jean sees a smile cross her face that he’s never seen before. Usually all Jean gets is that annoying smirk. Jean watches them but turns away quickly as he spots Marco’s gaze flashing over at him for a second. “I’m done, uh, looking around. I should probably head back before Armin gets worried.”

Ymir chuckles and slides Jean’s cat food across the scanner before placing it back down on the counter.

Shit. Jean forgot his reusable grocery bag back in the kitchen.

“No probs, Marco. Tell blondie I said hey, okay? And be careful on that bike of yours. Got it?”

Marco stands up straight and brings a hand up in mock salute. “Yes ma’am,” he says cockily. He turns towards Jean, eyeing him for a second and wary about the crazy boy that’s buying cat food for an animal named Jacque and goes off on tangents that barely make sense.

Jean keeps his head down at the stack of candy bars lined up and for sale but he hears the smile in the voice that speaks up next to him. “I’ll see you around, Jean.”

He’s gone before Jean can summon any will power to look back up but when he does he’s met with an honestly curious look from Ymir.

“What was that about? You know Marco?”

“N-no! No no no. I just met him by the chips and we talked for like a second. That’s all.” Jean stammers out his words and he can feel the sweat building back up around his neck. Ymir can be a scary person if you cross her path – he would know, he’s seen her pull out a baseball bat from god-knows-where when a shady person had walked into her store and tried to cause a scene.

Ymir stares at Jean for a second and he figures she’s waiting for his money and hands over his card. But all she does is scan the piece of plastic with the same concerned look on her face before handing it back and sliding over the small mountain of food.

Jean slips his wallet back into his pocket and is about to make a mad dash for it when Ymir catches his wrist.

“He’s new. And- and well, he’s different.” She lets go of his wrist but Jean doesn’t make it seem he’s about to move and she relaxes visibly. “I know you’re not a bad person so just. If you want, be his friend. He’ll – we both will – appreciate it.”

Jean nods his head solemnly and takes in Ymir’s words.

He turns his head to look out the door where Marco had left and he finds Marco himself still standing by the bicycle rack a few feet away from the door fiddling with the chains on one of the bikes. He’s far enough away that he wouldn’t have been able to hear Ymir’s words.

Jean wasn’t sure what exactly Ymir meant by “different” but everyone was different so it couldn’t be so detrimental to Jean’s social life.

He’s about to turn back to Ymir to tell her not to worry when his neck snaps in a literal double take back towards the entryway.

Marco sitting on a shiny, black bike. His too-bright green hoodies sitting across his shoulders like the perfect fit even as it looks to be oversized. The outrageously bright shorts that Jean had managed to look past as they stood in the aisle just moments ago is enough to blind a person. And then the hair. The same dark hair that went with the same vibrant color combination he’d seen ride past his balcony barely an hour ago.

Marco’s already gone around the edge of what Jean can see from where he’s standing in the shop and he turns back to Ymir looking at him with the same concern she’d given to Marco when he was telling her he was leaving for the day.

“Don’t worry. It’s a new city for him. And new cities mean new things, don’t they? I think the two of us will have a lot of fun rediscovering this beaten up town.”


	2. Electric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just thinking about it creates currents through Jean that he can't seem to shake off

The walk back to Jean’s small apartment is quiet.

Most of the people in the neighborhood have retired back into their homes and are probably in the process of making dinner or taking nap. Probably with someone right next to them but Jean keeps himself from getting too far into those thoughts.

He trundles his way towards home, his hands full of food items, and instead thinks about the weird day he’s had.

He’d woken up that day, mind set for something new, and had spent most of his morning sitting around doing anything but something new. His entire body had been flittering with some kind of energy that he needed to find an outlet for but there was just so much that Jean could do in his tiny little home without stepping on a cat’s toes or stubbing his own on rogue furniture.

Instead he’d resigned his morning to hideous cartoons on television that didn’t remind him any of what his childhood favorites were like and the sudden pangs for something familiar.

His thoughts had roamed a lot during those too long commercial breaks.

He didn’t like thinking about how it had ended with Eren but the more his thoughts wandered, they would point out the small things. Like how Eren was definitely not the culprit when the very essence of a relationship was a 50/50 split and a certain amount of the troubles Eren felt was from Jean himself.

He didn’t like having any of this pushed onto him but Jean couldn’t deny that their relationship had been teetering on the tiniest bit of weight and was sure to snap at the tiniest provocation.

And suddenly the truth bells were ringing and Jean was caught up denying that it was even there.

Walking back home after the day he’s had brings to light, for Jean, that Eren was right.

Something was making the air between them volatile and a little part of Jean was glad that Eren was able to get away before an explosion erupted between them and permanently separated the two.

Eren had promised that he’d come back; as a friend, but he would come back and talk to Jean once he’d cleared his mind.

Jean had waited the entire week for that day to come and after all those long days he’d decided to take a step in what Eren had gone to do.

He needed to get over relying on Eren for his social anxiety.

And then the incident with the guy on the bike – who Jean is sure now was Marco flashing by – was a slap in the right direction.

There were people out there that could feel for him and talk to him. He just needed to go out.

Running into Marco was that second surprise in Jean’s life and he hoped those feelings would grow into something like a friendship if not just the casual “hey” as they passed each other on the street or in the cornershop.

Jean soon found his feet pounding up the staircase leading up to his apartment door, his hands reaching into his pocket to grab his keys like on autopilot. His thoughts had wandered enough that he’d forgotten about the cool drink in his hand but after manhandling the keys and sticky lock he rushes his way into the small kitchen and cracks open the seal.

The cool burn of acidic-worthy caffeine feels great as it hits the back of Jean’s throat and he’s quickly pulled from the feeling when he hears the soft mewls coming from around his feet.

Jean stoops down to run his fingers through soft fur. “Hey baby. I brought you some yum yums.” He stands up and grabbing the box of wet cat food, he pads over to where Jacque’s food and water bowls are set up near the small dining table. Jean hears soft cat paws padding along behind him and smiles to himself. “You ready for some dinner, sweetheart?”

He turns around and looks down at his cat who meows in response as he sits on his hind legs, looking right back up at Jean.

Jean sits on the floor in front of the bowl and waits for his fluffy cat to sit himself on Jean’s lap as he fiddles with the packaging of the cat food.

It doesn’t take too long when he hears little paws on the smooth tile coming towards him and he lifts his arms from where he’d been resting them on his thighs to let Jacque onto his lap. The cat sidles up and into his given place with ease and Jean runs his forearm over his back as he cracks open the can.

He pours the mushy contents of canned cat food into the food bowl and waits as Jacque shifts in his lap to sniff at the stuff before taking a tentative lick. Jean snickers at the act and lets Jacque sit in his lap to be petted as he takes tiny bites and sniffs constantly at the pile of food.

Jean’s always been the type of person to not talk to people as much as he does with animals. Animals won’t judge your moral compass or how hard you’re crying over something completely trivial.

“Is it any good sweetheart? Hopefully by the time I get my next paycheck there’ll be a sale on the stuff you love and we can stock up so we never have to make you eat this mush.” Jean drops the can next to him and smooths his hand over Jacque’s fur who purrs in appreciation at the attention.

“It’s been a weird day, hasn’t it?”

\---

It’s takes a couple more days before Jean finally sees the numbers on his bank account going up.

Pay day is here!

He’d gone to work the day before – the chilly Monday morning jarring Jean into wakefulness and ready to start the path towards normalcy. It was Tuesday afternoon now and a quick look on his laptop showed that a full paycheck was waiting for him to get the things he needed done taken care of.

The rent and utilities bill for that month had already been sent down to the landlord. All that he needed to do was find a way to bring back and restock his bone-dry refrigerator and pantry. Toilet paper was probably something he needed to buy more of.

Shit. He should probably make a list.

Grabbing a pad of paper and a pen from his desk, Jean turns his body to lean against the smooth, dark pine of his writing desk and looks out through the doors of his deck.

He hadn’t opened the doors since that last Saturday; he was too busy trying to clean up his messy apartment and sorting out his dirty clothes from the clean.

The place had turned into a pigsty as Jean had lazed around and a turn around one place meant a revamp of everything around him. That meant keeping his place clean and clear of nasty bugs and rodents.

But now that he’s had the time to pour his focus back into work and relaxing in a new amount of free time, Jean can see a beautiful day trying to leak into the cracks of his deck space.

He pushes himself off the desk and walks towards the door. He can hear the soft sounds of Jacque breathing deep in his sleep across the room on the couch; his raspy breathes loud enough to drown out the sounds of the city outside.

Jean opens the door and lets the noises and fresh air into the apartment. The doors of the deck a little to the side of his across the alleyway sits swung open and Jean wonders if he’s ever even seen them open so wide.

Someone new must’ve moved into the house, Jean thinks.

There isn’t much going on outside the alley and Jean listens to the sounds of casual shouts and cars honking through the streets lining both sides of his building. People are still on their way home and Jean really should start getting that list prepared before the sun starts dipping too far towards the horizon.

He jots down the few things he can remember that are needed at the soonest time possible. Things like: milk, eggs, bread, Double Stuft Oreos, some fruits, (probably) lettuce and sandwich things, chocolate.

Deeming his list a hopeless cause and good enough, Jean’s about to turn away from the balcony to shuffle his way down to the grocery store when something catches his eye.

It’s quick but he sees a hand reaching out and pulling the wide double doors for the balcony next to him closed. He doesn’t get a good luck at the person, but something rings a few familiar bells and Jean hopes to every god out there that fate couldn’t be playing this many games with him.

Jean glances down the alley and realizes that just maybe he’s in some kind of weird, television show set up like the Truman Show and everything is planned and fake and obvious shit like this was being done for the viewer ratings. A sting sparks its way up Jean’s spine as he watches the little light the alleyway gets catch and reflect off the thin veneer of a black bike chained to the side of the building opposite to Jean.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Grabbing his keys and wallet in a mirror of his actions just a few days prior, Jean leaves his balcony in favor of walking through the world outside – the appeal of looking from a distance no longer relevant as he walks towards the small gap between the two buildings that leads into the alley.

Jean skids to a stop at the entrance of the tunnel, the small light of the afternoon casting shadows from the tall buildings on either side of him. This different perspective on a familiar space where Jean can see the underside of his own balcony and the metal railings he’d seen dark, freckled fingers trailing against just a few minutes ago hiding in the small shadows.

Jean looks lower, his vision tunneling on the bike, leaned up against the brick and mortar of the opposite building and half-hidden from the drying sun rays.

He doesn’t have any way to identify the bike’s owner or any sort of picture proof to compare his memories to and for second all Jean can do is stare at the black bicycle like it’s an alien species sent down from another planet.

There’d never been a bike parked out here before and the way that it’s barely hanging on to the old metal pipes along the wall of the building shows that the owner was careless about where to put his transportation.

Probably someone new and without the knowledge that it’s safer to take your bike inside with you than to leave it on the side of the road for the taking.

He hopes that whoever this bike belongs to, whether it’s Marco’s or not, they’ll be back soon to unchain the thing and take it inside somewhere. Jean doesn’t have the time to deal with door-to-door announcements on the search for a missing bicycle.

Jean spins on his heels to start his walk down towards the supermarket; it’s a farther distance than the cornershop and in the opposite direction from where his apartment building stands between the two. But instead, he runs himself into another brick wall, his nose digging painfully into the solid form.

The solid form covered in a soft cloth material that feels similarly like a tee shirt a person would wear out on a lovely afternoon.

Jean freezes and feels pins and needles sparking rivers into his veins as he blinks away the pain from squashing his nose into somebody’s collarbone.

He rubs the back of his hand against his eyes, pressing hard against the thin layer of skin until he can see little white spots in the surrounding darkness. Little stars flutter around his vision as he opens them, tears accumulating in the corners as he tries not to let the sudden pain get to him.

He mutters a quiet “sorry” as he tries to let the air around him help to dry out his ducts to avoid rubbing his eye sockets into his brain from the irritation.

The stars seem to clutter themselves onto the face in front of him as his eyes clear up considerably and Jean takes a couple more seconds to blink. Like a jolt running straight through his spine, Jean stands upright, his back rigid as he blinks up the inch or two Marco’s height grants him.

Surprise runs across the other man’s face and stuttered response filters through cotton as Jean tries to listen to the words leaving Marco’s mouth. “Jean? Wh-what are you doing here?”

Jean blinks and his hands start their tirade of being useless and in the way. “I-I, um, live here actually.” He points over his shoulder with one of his flapping hands and shifts in the direction of the alley. “That balcony up there is actually mine.”

The surprise turns immediately to pure joy across Marco’s face as he shoots a million dollar smile that could blind a person and give Jean a new prescription on his reading glasses. “Really?! That’s so crazy. I live in one of the places right next door to you! Actually, I’m pretty sure that balcony next to yours is mine and Armin’s place. What a small world!”

Jean can’t help but to grin at Marco’s enthusiasm, a warm feeling soaking straight into his shoes and leaving him shivering as he watches Marco glance between the two balconies in wonder.

He looks like a little kid that’s been given a buck or two to go wild in a candy store at Disney World; his expressions are comical yet endearing to a certain extent that Jean can’t manage to look away from his smile.

Marco turns back down to look at Jean and he clears his throat, caught in the act of staring like a complete creep. “Nice. We should hang out sometime. Have like a balcony barbeque. You can bring over your friend, Armin or whatever.”

Marco smiles, his lips softer than the harsher tilt they’d had a second ago from being so surged with excitement. “That’s sounds like a great idea.”

“Great,” Jean breathes out. His nerves had piled inside of him and that one exhale manages to leave his lungs fully depleted from oxygen for a second. “I should probably get going. Got groceries to buy.”

Marco chuckles and gives a quick nod. “Ah. Your paycheck finally came in?”

Jean lets out a strained grumble that passes as a disgruntled laugh. “Yup. And I’m ready for some semblance of real food.”

Jean watches the light flicker in Marco’s eyes for a second and the way his smile seems to falter for just a millisecond before bouncing back up to enthusiasm. He would’ve missed it if he’d taken the second to glance away but it’d still happened and Jean wonders what the sudden emotion that flitted to quickly across freckled cheeks could’ve been.

“Well I should let you go and get that _semblance_ of real food,” Marco replies, his voice a little strained as he seems to let himself flutter around the word. “I’m sure you deserve it.”

He could say something, comment on how Marco seems suddenly frustrated and how his idea of hiding it is really a piss poor job of doing so. Instead he nods his head and trails his eyes across Marco’s face. Hopefully the other guy will get what Jean is trying to understand; what he’s trying to say.

I’m onto you Freckles.

“Right. Well I guess I’ll see you later then, Marco.”

Marco nods his head enthusiastically, that light and energy flowing back into every part of his being as he bounces towards where his bike is chained to the wall. “Hopefully real soon. I’ll tell Armin about the invitation.”

“Sounds good,” Jean replies offhandedly; not thinking much about his promise for meager amounts of meat on the tiniest grill possible sitting on the edge of his deck.

He remembers suddenly. “Oh hey, Marco.”

The boy turns around, a look of worry etched on his face that leaves Jean smiling in reassurance.

“It’s probably not a good idea to leave your bike chained outside. ‘Lot safer if you take it up with you.”

Marco smiles, his gaze glancing down at his bike and back up at Jean. There’s something behind those brown eyes that catches Jean off guard again and he can’t place it but lets it go for another day to figure out. “Thanks, Jean.”

Jean shakes his head. “No worries, man. See ya.”

He turns on his heels and lets the sounds of chains jingling and hitting a cracked pavement be the soundtrack to his walk as he makes his way towards the grocery store. He can still here Marco climbing onto the metal bike, the chains and brakes working underneath him as he settles down and pushes himself in the other direction of where Jean’s headed.

Jean doesn’t turn around to watch Marco ride off but there’s a little spark in the base of Jean’s spine that’s intent on making itself known; the thrill of turning around and maybe finding brown eyes looking back at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry I'm gonna address the Eren thing and it won't be too bad. Marco's little difficulties will be addressed in a different day's prompt...once i figure out what i wanna write for the next 6 days. Chapter 1's are usually always longer because of setting the scene and all but hopefully i can keep up the lengths without dying or posting a day or two late. 
> 
> Leave a comment or message! Helps a lot and makes writing super easier. idk how but it works. 
> 
>  
> 
> [mamaarachne](http://mamaarachne.tumblr.com/)


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